


Accident Prone

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Coming of Age, Crossdressing, Crushes, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Face Punching, Fights, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hyuuga has anger issues, Internalized Homophobia, Kuroko lays down the law, Love/Hate, M/M, Mibuchi is a queen, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Time Skips, hard truths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "Mibuchi releases his hold on Hyūga's throat and when he moves to back away, ready to let the situation wither itself into silence, Hyūga's fist connects with his mouth. Mibuchi stumbles backward and clutches his jaw as Hyūga looks down at the pale pink lip-gloss that streaks his knuckles." Hyūga has been raised to believe that everything about Mibuchi is wrong, so with each chance encounter he finds himself more confused about how he feels and how he thinks he should feel.





	Accident Prone

The first time Hyūga sees Mibuchi outside of school without the company of his team and just as alone as he is, happens to be the same time when the Seirin captain discovers his _secret_. At least, that's what he assumes it must be since he's never seen Mibuchi like this before.

He's staring across the interior of one of his favorite café's located in Akihabara. He's waiting on his Char-Zaku Curry, a dish he stills finds to be too spicy but is determined to conquer. He doesn't realize that his eyes are still pinned on the boy across the restaurant until their eyes meet. Hyūga quickly turns his gaze away, his face burning a thousand degrees and his stomach tightening into a knot that's sure to stay until he's back outside under the warm sunshine.

Hyūga lowers his head and pretends to read one of the many menus pressed beneath the table's surface but the click of heels against the wooden tiles that line the floor indicates that his gawking won't go unacknowledged.

“What a surprise. What are you doing here?” A familiar tone reaches Hyūga's ears but its timbre is too low considering the appearance of the boy sliding into the seat opposite his own.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Hyūga answers, his voice firm and cold. “Last I heard, Rakuzan was located in Kyōto.”

“It is,” Mibuchi sing-songs, injecting a hint of sarcasm into his tone. “How kind of you to remember.” He drags the soft wet of his tongue across his lips and Hyūga can't help but stare at the glistening pink that catches in the light of the café. “I'm here in Tokyo with Sei-chan. He had some business here and wanted to visit Little Blue before we head back.”

Hyūga arches an eyebrow at the epithet but decides to ignore it. “So are you on break then? Shouldn't you be at the maid café down the street?”

Mibuchi laughs but the smile on his lips doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I should be offended. This dress cost three times as much as those cheap frocks.” Mibuchi smooths his hands down over the front of the, indisputably, well-tailored material. “Don't tell me that my presence disturbs you.” He lifts a leg and crosses it over his other, the heels on his feet and the stockings that act as a second skin emphasizing the slim curve of his legs. “Haven't you ever seen a boy dressed in women's clothes?”

“I'm happy to say that I haven't,” Hyūga tells him, though, he's not being entirely truthful. He lifts his gaze and notices the light blush on Mibuchi's high cheekbones but it's not for embarrassment—it's makeup, complimenting the thin line of coal that outlines his sparkling eyes, dark in contrast against his skin like the mascara that defines his naturally long lashes. It imbues Hyūga with something akin to anger and it's the final straw that breaks his willingness to endure the present situation. “Well, it's been... interesting, visiting with you, but there's somewhere I need to be.” Hyūga slides out of his seat and strides up to the bar's counter without another word.

“I changed my mind. I'd like my order to-go please.” Hyūga slaps several bills down on the counter's damp surface and waits impatiently as the tired-looking waitress readies his meal in a styrofoam container. It's an unconventional thing to do in Tokyo but the longstanding tradition of eating at a restaurant table has started to lose out against the conveniences of carry-out. When presented with his food he gives the woman a curt nod and hurries out of the café, his head bowed and shoulders stiff.

Mibuchi stares after him for a brief moment, then shakes his head while exhaling a quiet breath of laughter. The woman behind the counter offers him a consolatory smile and Mibuchi waves a hand to dispel her reassurance. “I'm used to it, sweetheart. Not everyone can handle the unorthodox and _eccentric_ , especially not when it comes packing an ass like this.” He reaches forward and hooks his finger around the handle of Hyūga's abandoned mug. “It'd be a shame to let such fine coffee go to waste,” he says, then grimaces when the bitter liquid hits his tongue. “On second thought, I think some things are better left alone.” He pushes himself into standing and turns to leave when he notices Hyūga's jacket nestled against his still-warm seat.

“I offended you so much that you couldn't even remember to gather your own belongings,” Mibuchi utters, aloud, but almost silent. “Well” –he sighs and grabs the bunched material– “what kind of _friend_ would I be if I didn't offer my assistance.” He stares down at the jacket clenched in his hands with a tight smile. _He'd probably be okay with losing it if it meant having to see you again to get it back._ Mibuchi tightens his hand into a fist and tilts his chin up, reminding himself to hold his head high.

If only it were enough to drown out the negative thoughts that still spill pessimism into every groove of his brain like poisonous ink.

* * *

When Hyūga encounters Mibuchi later that week, he's sitting next to Akashi on a bench at Kuroko and Kagami's favorite park. The ace and his shadow are in a heated match on the concrete court that cuts into the beginnings of fresh green grass, the lush turf a visible indication that winter is finally behind them. Hyūga watches Kuroko wipe the sweat from his brow and Kagami say something that doesn't quite meet his ears, but it's plain to see that it reaches Kuroko by the knit of his brows and the firm press of his mouth. Hyūga smiles, happy to see that his teammates are just as determined to better themselves as he is. Then, Mibuchi is rising in his peripheral vision, drawing nearer, and the smile slips away from his mouth to pull into a frown.

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” Hyūga tells him, not bothering to hide the irritation that sharpens the edges of his tone.

“We decided to stay a bit longer. Sei-chan is determined to start working on a project and it's going to take a few more days. I hope my being here isn't going to cause any issues.” Mibuchi stares down at him; his expression is polite but there's something behind his eyes that challenges Hyūga to pick an argument.

“I guess not,” Hyūga says, lifting his shoulders in the barest of shrugs. The gesture is just this side of offensive, as if Hyūga thinks so little of Mibuchi that he can't spare him a few moments of his time—which he clearly has in spades considering his casual attire and offhand attendance.

Mibuchi watches as Hyūga slips his hands into his pockets but his shoulders are just a taut as they were during their last visit. Mibuchi sighs and affords Hyūga a sympathetic smile. “I'm not going to throw myself at you, you know. Not all of _us_ jump on the first _dick_ we see.”

Hyūga slants his gaze toward Mibuchi and briefly takes in the crisp cotton of his shirt and the black denim pressed tight against his skin. Hyūga can feel the tension in his limbs, yet, Mibuchi appears to be all too comfortable with their current situation. It makes him exhale a sharp hiss of irritation, hating how complacent Mibuchi is in his skin when he wants to crawl out of his own. “Who exactly are you referring to? _Us_? Are you making some kind of confession? Because if you are, I don't want to hear it.”

To Hyūga's surprise, Mibuchi laughs while rolling his eyes. “You must think very highly of yourself, Hyūga-kun. If I were to be making a confession, you certainly wouldn't be the person I'd open my heart up to.” Mibuchi pauses and tilts his head. “You think this is all a joke, don't you? It's easier for you to think of me as a trick or some kind of parody, isn't it? That way you can pretend that people like me don't _really_ exist.” Hyūga turns his attention to Mibuchi and the dark behind his gaze has shifted into something dangerous, threatening. Mibuchi throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender and shakes his head. “Hey, don't think that I'm not used to it. You're not the first person I've stumbled upon that can't accept me for who I am. Unfortunately, for you, you're going to miss out on the opportunity to get to know someone brilliant.” Mibuchi lowers his arms and turns his back to Hyūga, his feet sounding on the ground as he starts back toward where Akashi's sitting.

“What _are_ you?” Hyūga blurts, anger bubbling up the back of his throat and into sound. He curls his hands into fists and straightens his spine to make himself appear slightly taller.

Mibuchi stops, and a brief moment passes before he turns around. “I'm a human, Hyūga. I'm a person, just like you.” He sounds more wounded than he'd usually allow but he keeps his head up and his body in a stance that demonstrates confidence when he continues forward. _For that, I'm keeping your jacket a while longer,_ Mibuchi thinks.

“You're nothing like me,” Hyūga scoffs. He turns his gaze away from Mibuchi's back and looks to the court. Kagami is pretending not to notice his existence by chugging down the entire contents of a water bottle. It's Kuroko who meets his eyes directly, a look of disappointment radiant and clear in the bright waters of his gaze. He looks disconcerted— _no that's not it_ —he looks _sad_ , almost like a child who just walked in on their parents in the middle of a heated argument. Kagami claps him on the shoulder and Kuroko breaks eye contact in lieu of continuing practice. It should feel like relief, but all Hyūga can feel is a wealth of emotions and despite what he knows his friends would tell him, he can't keep himself from eking narrow prejudices on sundry points.

Hyūga turns on his heel and away from the place where he took comfort only minutes ago. He grits his teeth and considers stomping away in a show of animus, yet, for some inexpiable reason, he's finding himself on the verge of tears.

* * *

“Don't you think you were a bit harsh the other day?” Kuroko asks while tightening the laces on his sneakers.

Hyūga exhales a short-winded sigh. He both respects and hates Kuroko's ability to speak his mind without fear of consequence. “No. I don't. I said what I wanted to say and that's that. I never claimed to be his friend.”

Kuroko considers his words, his brows furrowed in a way that's become a habit when he's mulling over his thoughts.

“Look,” Hyūga starts, “I'm not trying to piss anyone off but I was raised a certain way and wearing dresses and blowing guys for fun are two things that were, _thankfully_ , not a part of my... education.”

Kuroko arches a brow, seemingly surprised by Hyūga's choice of words. “Hyūga-senpai, I understand that going against household beliefs is difficult but we all have the power to change the things that our families failed to overcome. I don't think that your ideology is enough to excuse treating a person with disrespect.”

“I wasn't disrespecting–” Hyūga sighs for the second time and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I just don't think that guys should act like girls. Any guy who wears dresses and talks the way he does is just... I think he should be ashamed of himself.”

Kuroko lifts his head to meet Hyūga's vacillating gaze. “I didn't think you'd be so narrow-minded, Senpai.” He leans forward and hooks his fingers around his bag's strap. “People who can't see beyond preconception and self-perpetuating stereotypes are often fighting with something much deeper than discriminatory hate. Maybe you should be asking yourself who's really ashamed of who.”

Kuroko begins to leave but Hyūga catches him by the shoulder and spins him around roughly. “What are you trying to say? Are you implying that I'm disgusted by that freak because I'm warring with some kind of deep-seated need to dress and act like a fag?”

“I guess I was just hoping that you would look a little bit deeper. Why does it bother you so much? You admired him before you found out that he liked to kiss boys and occasionally wear women's clothes. You practiced late into the night for days on end, just to prove that you could be as good as he is on the court. Now, suddenly he's not even worthy of your respect? It doesn't make sense. That's all I'm saying. Now, if you would please move. I have a _date_ with Kagami-kun.”

Hyūga listens to the light shuffle of Kuroko's footsteps as he walks past him and through the locker-room doors. He stares at the opposite wall until his eyes burn and the rage trapped in the shadows between his ribs spreads like fire into his veins. He kicks over the bench to his left, slams his fists against the locker doors, and shouts a broken flood of incoherent words that tear at the back of his throat. He doesn't stop until his muscles ache and his knuckles are torn and bleeding. He doesn't stop until his mouth is dry and he has no voice left to shout and even still, as he collapses against a locker and slides to the floor, he can't overlook the hate that's manipulating every cell in his body.

He recounts Kuroko's words while he stares at the ceiling, letting the bright light buzzing above him burn into his eyes as tears stream down his cheeks. _This_ , he tells himself, is why he never looked deeper. _This_ , is why he hates the nethermost parts of himself.

* * *

“Why are you _everywhere_?” Hyūga complains when Mibuchi sits next to him in a local bar late the following night.

“I'm not following you, if that's what you think,” Mibuchi says, gently tracing the rim of a wine glass with his index finger.

“Then why are you _here_? I mean, why out of all the places to go in Tokyo, and why _here,_ next to me? Don't you have somewhere else to be?” Hyūga snaps. He looks around the bar as if he's worried that someone might see him conversing with the other boy.

“No one here is going to judge you for sitting next to me.” Mibuchi tips his head to the side and catches the weight of it with his palm, his long fingers curving over the sharp contour of his cheek. “I know that we're not friends. I guess I was just hoping that you'd give me a chance to talk with you.”

“I already know that you like to dress like a woman and that you're queer. I don't really need to know much else.” The words leave Hyūga's mouth in a rush, almost like he intends to _spit_ them at Mibuchi. Then: “You're not old enough to drink that.” Hyūga gestures to the wine glass next to the other's hand with a nod, not really sure where the sudden need to adhere to Japan's legal drinking age is coming from.

Mibuchi doesn't laugh, doesn't even crack his usual smile. He simply studies Hyūga carefully before choosing his next words. “I never told you that I was gay. You just assumed.” Mibuchi leans forward, pressing his elbows against the age-worn surface of the tabletop. “I like to pretend that I can drown my sorrows like the rest of them.” He gestures to a row of men lined up at the bar and exhales more breath than the actual laughter he aims for. “That guy there,” –Mibuchi points discreetly– “he's been coming here for two years. He's always looking for love in the wrong places. The man next to him, he's been in the military since the very first day he could join—probably will be for the rest of his life. The woman behind the bar was a victim of sex trafficking. She escaped her abductors when she was only fourteen years old. She's a brilliant woman, stronger than most men I know.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Hyūga asks, losing some of his edge to curiosity.

Mibuchi shrugs and takes a shallow sip of the strawberry-colored liquid in his glass. He swallows and smooths his tongue over his lips before speaking. “I guess I just like to—get to know people. There are so many walks of life and everyone has their own story.” He pauses and lowers his gaze to his glass, his hair framing his pale face like an inky curtain. “I like being the person that people can talk to.”

“Yeah, but why do you _care_?” Hyūga looks up at the bar and frowns, realizing how cold and callous the question makes him sound.

“Because I've been there,” Mibuchi tells him, faultlessly, despite the obvious weight of the statement. “I've been judged and ridiculed. I've been bullied and beaten, chastised for my interests and ridiculed for my beliefs. I've been alone.” Mibuchi sweeps a section of his hair behind his ear and smiles sadly. “You don't realize how much you need support until you find that one person who's willing to listen.”

“So why not change it?” Hyūga shifts in his seat. “You don't have to dress like a fag or, _you know_ , with guys. So why do it?”

Mibuchi laughs and this time the bright trill of it spreads to warmth behind his eyes. “Bless you. You poor innocent thing.” Mibuchi laughs a second time and Hyūga narrows his eyes to slits. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just... If it was only that _easy_. If people were given a choice in who they're to become, in who they _are_ , don't you think that we'd all be one and the same?”

“But you _do_ have a choice. You can change it.” Hyūga shakes his head and turns his focus away from Mibuchi, eager to forget the way the soft damp of his lips catch in the dim glow of the bar.

“It's not that simple. People can't change who they are, Hyūga.” Mibuchi's voice is low and unexpectedly serious. “Life is not some rehearsal we can change the script of, and happiness does not come cheap. We make daily sacrifices in the name of our beliefs. But gender and sex, the color of our skin, the lives we're born into, those things can't be simply forgotten. There's a whole slew of points in question that upset the balance of what's right and wrong but those things are frivolous. Not any one person can know the truth behind natural law—every moral code that's been decided as _good_ or _bad_ has been written by what we believe to be equitable. Everyone is different, with contrasting views and convictions, which is exactly why you can't look at me as a person, a human no different from yourself at heart. You've been raised to believe that what I do is wrong—but we all have a similar makeup, Hyūga. It's our choices in life that separates us from each other, makes us individuals, and it's up to you to decide whether or not you're going to think for yourself.” Mibuchi exhales a languid breath and glances at a menu to his left. “I guess when my time comes, I'll be happy knowing that I did my best to accept people as _who_ they are on the inside and not for what they look like on the outside.” He slips out of his seat and smiles down at Hyūga warmly. “My grandmother always told me that getting older doesn't mean that you've grown. It's all about making changes in here.” Mibuchi presses a hand to his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. “I'll see you around, Junpei. Take care of yourself.”

Hyūga watches him leave, unable to look away even when Mibuchi's already long gone. His eyes burn when he finally averts his gaze, dry and scratchy from the inability to blink until now. He exhales a rush of oxygen and cradles his head in his hands. A part of him knows that what Mibuchi said holds truth but the gravity of his dogma is pulling him in two very different directions.

What he's most afraid of is breaking because once you break, it's too late to fall apart.

* * *

“But why dress like a woman?” Hyūga asks, drawing the question out from Mibuchi's last sentence. They've been talking for twenty minutes in an abandoned park several miles away from the heart and the hustle and bustle of the city. Hyūga curls his fingers around the interconnecting links of a swing chain while his feet draw abstract patterns in the sand.

“That's simple,” Mibuchi answers. “Some days I feel like being masculine, some days I feel like being feminine, while on other days, I don't identify as anything at all. That being said, there are plenty of masculine men who like to dress in women's clothes, and the same goes for women who like to dress in men's clothing. It's just fabric with a label on it. I think it's silly that something as insignificant as clothing is categorized by gender at all.”

“I guess,” Hyūga drawls, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “But how can that be possible? So sometimes you're straight, sometimes you're gay, and sometimes you're what...an alien?”

Mibuchi chuckles and shakes his head in a gesture that belies what Hyūga's implying. “I can't tell if you're being serious or if it's simply that your inner nerd is coming out.” Mibuchi swings his feet forward and begins to oscillate against the gentle breeze that sweeps through his shiny black strands. “Being effeminate or manly has nothing to do with sexual preference. I'm always pansexual—that's the attraction to any person of any sex or gender,” Mibuchi clarifies before Hyūga can interject. “In layman's terms, I like males, maybe even prefer them, but I'm not opposed to being with a female.” Mibuchi slows the momentum of his undulation and faces Hyūga directly. “It's not easy explaining this to someone who's so against learning.”

“I'm trying, okay?” Hyūga snaps. “It's not easy trying to learn when I'm constantly being hounded by this voice in the back of my head that tells me this is wrong. Give me a little time.”

Mibuchi smiles then and reaches out to squeeze Hyūga's hand. Hyūga starts at the contact and yanks his hand away as if he's just been burned. His glasses turn opaque under the bright light of the sun but Mibuchi can read his expression clearly without needing to see his eyes. “I'm sorry. It's habit.” He pierces Hyūga with his gaze then, an expression of warning taking over the shape of his face. “Don't even think about ascribing that to your homophobic suspicions. Just because I like men doesn't mean that I rub up on them every chance I get.” Mibuchi turns as much as the swing will allow and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “My point, before, was that I don't care who it is that I end up falling in love with as long as we can make each other happy.”

“How can you make all of this so simple?” Hyūga blurts, his face scrunching up in what appears to be visible pain. “When I was growing up I was taught that men were men and women were women. These terms didn't even exist and men and women were meant to be with each other. Fags— _homosexuals_ —they were ostracized, more or less.”

Mibuchi nods slowly and waits for Hyūga to finish speaking before issuing a response. “You're not _that_ old, Junpei. Homosexuality in the eyes of others still comes bearing many flaws but it's not what it used to be. You were taught what that person, or those people, wanted you to believe. It's not so black and white anymore.” Mibuchi rests his head against the swing's chain and stares past the glinting reflection of Hyūga's lenses. “Do you agree with what you've been led to believe?”

“Of course,” Hyūga tells him, answering sharply and almost too-quick. He sweeps his tongue across his bottom lip and averts his gaze. “Doesn't it bother you, though? That you don't fit into what people perceive as being _normal_?”

“Of course,” Mibuchi parrots, but his tone is much softer and fluid than Hyūga's. “If fitting into social norms meant that I didn't have to question myself as a person, that I didn't have to undergo being bullied and criticized for merely _existing_ , you better believe that I would have chosen a different path. But I wouldn't have been happy. You have to learn to accept who you are as a person and turn the other cheek when people condemn you for it. You have to hold on to every grain of your spirit, you have to be confident and strong. The problem is” –Mibuchi takes a deep breath– “no one can be strong all the time.”

“So what do you do then?” Hyūga asks, his knuckles going white for the way he's gripping the rusty silver chain keeping him upright.

“It depends on your beliefs. Some people pray, some turn to support groups, friends, family, _drugs_. Not everything is pretty and _simple_ about being diverse. But it's just another thing that makes people like myself similar to people like you. We all have our struggles and our doubts. We all have emotions; strengths and weaknesses. We all go to bed with our selfish fears that keep us up at night. We all seek love and comfort and happiness. The real problem is, most of us feel entitled to these things and that's where things can get messy.”

“What about...religion?” Hyūga asks, tentatively. It's the first time he's approached a topic of their discussions with caution and Mibuchi respects him for it.

“Are you asking me if I believe that I'll make it into Heaven? Or are you on the side of thinking that I'll go to Hell for being able to love a man?”

“I guess both.” Hyūga shrugs. “I didn't really think that far ahead.”

Mibuchi nods and Hyūga watches the smooth column of his throat shift when he swallows thickly. “I guess I really haven't either.” Then, Mibuchi leans forward and fits his lips to the shape of Hyūga's own. He pulls away before Hyūga has a chance to respond, most likely with his fist, and slides out of the swing. “If that means that I'll spend an eternity in Hell, then there's something very wrong with religion and I don't want any part of it.”

* * *

The following night starts with Hyūga asking how long Mibuchi's _really_ staying in Tokyo but the question ends with him pushing Mibuchi back against a brick wall, damp with rain and slick with moss. He doesn't know what sparks inspiration or encourages the affluence of confidence that crashes over him, but it's enough that he's grinding against Mibuchi and silencing his huff of surprise with a passionate kiss.

Mibuchi pulls back and looks at Hyūga with an expression of confusion beneath the weight of his long, dark lashes. “Why?” he rasps, blinking away the heat that fogs his vision.

“I don't know,” Hyūga says, his voice splintering. “I don't _fucking_ know! Why am I like this?” He looks at Mibuchi as if he blames him for what he's done. “This is your fault, it's too late for me to go back and you—you just kept having to _push_ me. You couldn't just leave me alone and now, now I'm standing here like a–”

“A what?” Mibuchi asks, surprised at the way his voice sounds. His eyes flicker in the darkness as he watches Hyūga toe the line of a mental breakdown. “ _A fag? A homo? A freak?_ If it makes you feel better, say it. I know it's what you think. I know that you're ashamed to be seen with me. Did you think I wouldn't notice?Come on, Hyūga.Why else would you only spend time with me in this deserted— _shithole—_ of a neighborhood twenty miles from your home. You can say what you want about me but I'm not stupid.”

“I hate you,” Hyūga spits, “I hate that you're capable of doing these things to me.”

“I can't yield what was never true, Junpei. I'm not doing anything to control you. I wouldn't do that.”

“Don't call me that!” Hyūga's voice echoes off the walls of the abandoned building. “How am I supposed to believe you? How am I supposed to know that you're not manipulating me to get what you want?”

“Because I would be the one to get hurt in the end!” Mibuchi steps forward, and the shadows on his face disappear beneath the light of the moon. “Who are you to assume that this is what I want?”

Hyūga scoffs and rounds on Mibuchi like he's preparing for a fight. “Like you wouldn't. It's all just fun and games to you, isn't it? I'm just another conquest for you.”

Mibuchi's eyes darken and he doesn't realize what he's doing until Hyūga's pulse is thrumming beneath his fingertips. “You don't know a damn thing about me if you think that I'm only interested in you for what you have between your legs.” Mibuchi shoves Hyūga against the same spot on the wall he'd been only moments ago. “I give and give but it's never enough. No matter what I do I just can't make you see reason. I _like_ you, Junpei, but you'll never see past the hate that's blinding you.”

Mibuchi releases his hold on Hyūga's throat and when he moves to back away, ready to let the situation wither itself into silence, Hyūga's fist connects with his mouth. Mibuchi stumbles backward and clutches his jaw as Hyūga looks down at the pale pink lip-gloss that streaks his knuckles.

“This will never happen again,” Hyūga says. He lifts his head to look Mibuchi in the eye, pretending at confidence, but instead, he watches a thin rivulet of blood collect in the corner of the other boy's mouth.

* * *

Hyūga is surprised to see Mibuchi at their usual spot the following day. His eyes are lined in black but the dark look is subtle, and somehow, it compliments the bruise that contours his swollen mouth. Mibuchi lowers his head and stares down at the ground, his smooth-gloss hair hanging heavy over his face. He rocks forward in the swing but his feet never leave the ground.

“I didn't expect you to show up,” Hyūga says, the pitch of his tone wavering with guilt.

“That's supposed to be my line,” Mibuchi tells him. He lifts his head and looks at Hyūga. “I guess I was hoping you'd show up and offer me an apology.” It's sarcasm and they both know it, but neither of them shows any hints of amusement.

“I probably should.” Hyūga sighs and sits down on his usual swing. He lets his hands fall into his lap and stares out toward the direction of the sun. “You must hate me now.”

“I don't waste my energy hating the assholes who use their fists as a means of communication. I tend to pity them and move on with my life.” Mibuchi reaches up and catches his fingers around the swing's chains.

“I guess I deserved that,” Hyūga answers, emphatically.

“No” –Mibuchi shakes his head– “you deserve to be punched in the mouth.” He follows Hyūga's line of sight and watches a flock of birds soar through the sky.

“That's fair too.” It's all Hyūga can say before an uncomfortable blanket of silence descends over them like the cool promise of sunset. But the sun is high in the sky and there's more than a handful of hours between now and nightfall. Several minutes pass with only the occasional jangle of their swings or the groaning protest of the metal they're affixed to. Finally, Hyūga abruptly pushes himself into standing and faces Mibuchi. “Do you want to come over to my place?” The question leaves his mouth in a rush of consonants and vowels and it's a miracle that Mibuchi can parse his words at all.

“Why? So you can shout at me some more? Maybe give me a black-eye or punch me in the gut?” Mibuchi can hear the bitterness in his tone, as deadly as noxious vapor and as thick as smoke. He sighs and stands, ignoring the swing as it bumps against the backs of his knees. “Fine. I'll go with you, but only if you promise me one thing.”

“What?” Hyūga asks, the fear in his eyes matching the apprehension that spills past his lips. “You're not going to–”

Mibuchi holds up a hand to silence whatever it is Hyūga's about to say. “You really need to learn when to shut up.” He stares at Hyūga to underscore the importance of his statement before continuing. “I don't know what _this” –_ he gestures to Hyūga then back to himself– “is between us but I need you to promise me that you'll stop blaming me for how you feel.”

Hyūga frames his lips around something that looks markedly close to protest but he nods instead. “Okay. I'll try.”

“That's all I ask.” Mibuchi strides forward and stands next to Hyūga. “Lead the way if you haven't changed your mind. I know that letting a _queer_ into your home must be terrifying. Just remember that I'll be able to come over whenever I want after this.”

“I really should have thought this through,” Hyūga says, absentmindedly. However, he begins in the direction whence he came and starts to guide Mibuchi back to his residence.

* * *

“So is it safe to assume that your family won't be home for a while?” Mibuchi asks, stepping into Hyūga's bedroom.

“Y-yeah,” Hyūga stammers, glancing around his own room uncomfortably. He wrings his hands together and sits at the edge of his bed stiffly.

“I'm not going to pounce on you.” Mibuchi glances at the posters that line Hyūga's walls, letting his eyes rove over each picture briefly while, in turn, taking in the many warlord figures that fill the number of shelves that compliment each glossy advertisement. “Is this a hobby of yours?” Mibuchi turns to look at Hyūga but he's no longer on the edge of the bed, and Mibuchi's surprised to find him standing so close.

“Yeah, I guess. I like to make dioramas too.” Hyūga's cheeks flush and it's plain to see that the art and craft of his avocation are taking a hit against his pride.

Mibuchi nods and turns around to face Hyūga directly, his palms grazing the desk behind him to support his unbalanced stance. “I like to bake,” he offers, shrugging. “A hobby is meant to be pleasurable, a diversion from the weight of everyday life. Don't be ashamed of it.”

“Are you always this... _clinical_?” Hyūga asks, implementing the term for lack of a better word. “I mean, sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a psychologist or something.”

“Is there something I should know?” Mibuchi asks, teasingly. “Are you currently being treated for some kind of personality disorder because let me tell you, I wouldn't be surprised. Your mood changes are starting to give me whiplash.”

Hyūga laughs quietly and lowers his head, looking almost ashamed. “Yeah. I get that. I don't really understand them myself.” He inhales a deep breath, lets the comfort of it expand in his lungs and shift his chest. “Can we...I want to... _fuck_ –”

Mibuchi's eyes go wide with surprise as he feigns shock, placing a hand over his heart. “I know that I told you I'd give you lots of love, but I don't think you're ready to sail that ship, darling.”

Hyūga looks momentarily confused but his expression melts away when he unravels the implication. “Oh, for fuck's sake. That's not what I meant.”

Mibuchi takes a short step forward and smooths his palm down over the front of Hyūga's shirt. “Maybe it's best that I do the _talking_ from this point on.”

Hyūga swallows thickly and all of the color in his face washes away to leave his cheeks sallow and his mouth compressed. Mibuchi waits, but when Hyūga issues no protest, he pulls him close and presses their lips together. The kiss is tentative at first and when Mibuchi shifts his hands over Hyūga's shoulders, he can feel the tension turning into knots all down his spine. “It's okay,” Mibuchi breathes, cooling the slick on Hyūga's lip. “We'll go slow.”

Hyūga nods but the acknowledgment is missed because he's sliding his hand into the soft of Mibuchi's hair—the hair he's wanted to touch for so long—and pulling their bodies flush as he drags him into a fierce kiss of lips and tongue and teeth. Hyūga feels like he's losing himself in Mibuchi, like he's losing a part of himself that he'll never get back. But it doesn't matter, not anymore because he's tired of fighting and after days of resistance he finally feels like he's coming home in Mibuchi's arms.

They kiss until their lips are swollen and red and the bottom line of Mibuchi's mouth splits from the ghost of Hyūga's fist. And Hyūga's muttering an apology but Mibuchi is shaking his head and shoving him back toward his bed. Hyūga topples onto the mattress and by the time he pulls himself upright, Mibuchi is on the floor between his knees, pulling at the waistband of his jeans.

“What are you–?” Hyūga manages, his breathing labored and his words forced.

“I want to... Let me blow you,” Mibuchi says, lifting his heat-glazed stare to Hyūga's dark orbs. “I won't take it farther than this if you don't want me to. I just... I want to know what you taste like. Please,” Mibuchi begs, unashamed by the way the plea strains in his throat.

Hyūga looks down at the boy between his legs, at the plump slick of his lips, the desire pooling in his half-lidded gaze, trapped beneath thick lines of dark lashes. Mibuchi draws his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks away the blood that stains the sensitive tissue. It seems innocent enough but the gesture sends a jolt of pleasure straight to Hyūga's cock and he claims acceptance before his proclivity to second guess himself takes over.

Mibuchi's fingers brush the back of Hyūga's hand as they work in tandem—Hyūga on the button and Mibuchi on the zip—to slide the fabric of his jeans down and past his slim hips. Hyūga hisses as the fabric brushes over his cock, already hard and straining beneath the thin layer of his boxers. Mibuchi moans quietly and shifts the flat of his hands over the taut muscles that shape Hyūga's strong thighs. The _slide_ of skin-on-skin contact is pleasant enough but when Mibuchi bows his head to mouth at the damp stain that's collected on the front of the other's boxers, Hyūga feels like he's already crossed over the precipice of is undoing. He fists his hand back into Mibuchi's hair and pushes him closer to his erection, desperate to feel _more_.

One ragged breath and another teasing swipe of his tongue later, Mibuchi draws Hyūga's cock out of the damp fabric and into the open air. “You know, I heard that you've admired my playing style for some time,” Mibuchi says, looking up to meet Hyūga's gaze. He curls a hand around the base of Hyūga's cock and squeezes gently. Hyūga gasps and jerks forward, his cock twitching in Mibuchi's hand as a bead of precome trickles over its flushed tip. Mibuchi smirks and drags the flat of his tongue up the underside of his hardness. “Maybe this will give you something else to admire,” he says, then presses his mouth over the head of Hyūga's leaking cock.

“Fuck,” Hyūga says with a groan, pushing deep into Mibuchi's throat. He closes his eyes and tightens his fingers around Mibuchi's dark strands. He sucks on his bottom lip and abuses the swollen flesh with his teeth as Mibuchi swallows around his length, taking him down to the root. Hyūga gasps and shakes then knots both of his hands in Mibuchi's hair—an obsession he wasn't aware of until now—and pulls him closer still. He can feel the heat on Mibuchi's breath against the low of his abdomen, his nose pressing close against his skin. He begins to loosen his grip, afraid that he's suffocating the other boy, but Mibuchi lifts a hand and places it over Hyūga's own in a gesture of encouragement.

Hyūga shudders and gently rocks into Mibuchi's mouth, pushing his hard length a little deeper with each thrust until Mibuchi chokes and draws back up to the tip of Hyūga's cock. Hyūga thinks it might have been disappointing given other circumstances but the slow drag of friction combined with the blessed suction of Mibuchi's skilled mouth is enough to push him well beyond the bounds of his control. Hyūga gasps and his whole body tenses as the first wave of his climax rushes through him. He furls his toes and exhales a breath of satisfaction as the pleasurable sensation washes through him like the first rains of a summer storm. “Reo,” Hyūga breathes, his body trembling as Mibuchi slowly slides his mouth off of his cock, almost taunting the sensitive flesh with slick heat.

Mibuchi licks the sticky fluid from his lips and moans, his eyes closing as gratification swamps his veins. Hyūga looks down at him, at the remnants of dark coal smudged beneath his eyes and the flush of his cheeks, the soft of his skin, and the rumpled mess of his hair. He looks like he's been on the receiving end of pleasure despite being the one to supply it and Hyūga doesn't think he's ever seen anything so fucked up and so beautiful at the same time.

“You know, that's the first time I've ever heard you say my name,” Mibuchi says, his voice raw and low. “It's nice.”

Hyūga nods, still speechless from the intensity of his orgasm and the sudden realization of what he's just done. He takes a deep breath and tries to steel himself against the apprehension that's threatening to strip away his happiness.

“I know that this is hard for you,” Mibuchi says, abrupt seriousness cutting into his tone. “You're afraid that this changes everything. You're afraid that if you allow yourself to think that this is okay for even a second that you'll be forced to admit that this is what you want.” Mibuchi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes himself into standing.

“What makes you think that you're what I want?” Hyūga snaps, tucking himself back into his boxers. He can feel heat spread into his cheeks, down the line of his throat and across the sweat-damp of his collarbones. Guilt washes over him but he doesn't know how to deal with the sudden prickle of shame that spills into the marrow of his bones and down to his soul—he knows that it's arbitrary, that it's unfair and cruel, but he can't frame his lips around the apology that sticks to the dry of his tongue.

“You're arrogant, Junpei. And I should hate you for it but I can't. I can't help that I've fallen for you, and maybe it was by accident but I know that this wasn't a mistake.” Mibuchi watches a range of expressions pass over Hyūga's face and it's almost as if he's watching a story play out across a movie screen. “I'll go if it's what you need.”

Hyūga says nothing for a long moment and Mibuchi considers the pregnant weight of silence between them an unspoken request. He reaches Hyūga's door and places his hand on the knob when Hyūga finally speaks. “How can you say that this wasn't a mistake?” he asks, his voice sounding small and almost defeated.

“Because I don't view it that way.” The answer is simple and Mibuchi can't keep his shoulders from rising into a brief shrug when he speaks it. “Tell me that I'm wrong. Tell me that you didn't want this.”

Hyūga bows his head and Mibuchi prepares himself for the hurricane that's to follow but it doesn't come. Instead, Hyūga buries his face in his hands and begins to laugh. “I can't believe that I got my first blowjob from _you_.”

Mibuchi narrows his eyes and pulls his lips into a tight line. He's offended and hurt but his usual ability to parse through his thoughts is no longer within his reach so he lets his emotions still into silent acceptance. It's not as though he should have expected anything else.

But then Hyūga is lifting his head and there's something in his eyes that Mibuchi has yet to see. “I can't believe that I'm actually...happy.”

A surge of hope blossoms in Mibuchi's chest but he reminds himself that there's a long and difficult road ahead of him—of _them_.

“Well, of course, you're happy. I give amazing head,” Mibuchi says, striding across the room with an air of pretension. “I should be insulted that you doubted my abilities.”

Hyūga exhales a breath of laughter and raises his eyebrows in a gesture of agreement. “Yeah, you do. But...what do we do now? I mean, how does all of this fall into place with my, _you know_.”

Mibuchi nods, knowing that he's referring to the bones of his disbelief and the many years of conversations about _what should_ and _shouldn't be_ that he's been subjected to. “What we do now is go on with our lives.” Hyūga lifts his head, and Mibuchi can see pain seeping through the cracks in his gaze. “I don't mean that I'm opposed to being with you.” Mibuchi sits down on the bed next to Hyūga and gently takes his hand. “What I mean is that we work through this together. It's not going to be easy and it's a heavy cross to bear but I certainly don't expect you to come out with this news tomorrow. I'm willing to give you time.”

Hyūga's lips quirk into a crooked smile and the weight between them doesn't seem so heavy. “You'll help me?”

“Of course. Lord knows you're not going to be able to do it on your own.”

Hyūga laughs, then looks down at their joined hands and laces their fingers together. “No. I won't. I just hope you can forgive me for being an asshole. I know that I'm not the easiest person to get along with, not even on my best days.”

“I'm not as weak as I look, Junpei. If you piss me off enough I'll lay you on your ass.” Mibuchi squeezes his hand in a comforting gesture and lifts his arm to brush his opposite hand through Hyūga's hair. “If I can promise you one thing, it's that I'll be your strength when you need it. Remember, one of us has already traveled down this road.”

“So does this mean that you're going to forgo the ladies for now?” Hyūga asks, genuinely curious.

“Oh honey, I'm as gay as I am flat-chested and starry-eyed. That was only a ruse to make you more comfortable around me. Now, come on” –Mibuchi pats Hyūga's leg and rises from the bed– “you're sticky with spunk and you smell as guilty as sin. We need to get you in the shower.”

“Does this mean that you're staying?” Hyūga looks slightly uncomfortable but the tension that normally stiffened his posture is gone.

“For now. I'm not missing out on the opportunity to impress you with my goods.” Mibuchi opens the bedroom door and starts for the bathroom he passed coming down the hall.

“Wait!” Hyūga starts racing after him, tugging at his undone jeans to keep them from pooling around his knees. “Does that mean that you're showering with me?”

“What do you think?” Mibuchi enters the bathroom, then, disappears from Hyūga's sight. “I should prepare you though, I'm hung like a stallion,” he calls.

“Goddammit,” Hyūga mutters. “What the fuck did I get myself into?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
